


Daddy, I'm alone ('Cause this house don't feel like home)

by ShanleenKinnJaskey



Series: Coming Back As We Are [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Blangst, Childhood, Emotional Abuse, Gen, Homophobic Language, Minor Character Death, Neglect, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5595784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShanleenKinnJaskey/pseuds/ShanleenKinnJaskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four-year-old Blaine Anderson's eyes were bright; seventeen-year-old Blaine Anderson couldn't imagine anyone loving him. Five-year-old Blaine Anderson's bowtie was always worn proudly; sixteen-year-old Blaine Anderson's smile was patched together. Six-year-old Blaine Anderson wanted to dance with a Disney prince; twelve-year-old Blaine Anderson sat on a stool, thumb burnt and eyes filling with tears while he waited for dinner to cook.<br/>....<br/>Blaine was six years old. While other kids were welcomed home to parents asking them about Junie B. Jones and the capital of Ohio, Blaine was wondering if he was a <em>freak</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy, I'm alone ('Cause this house don't feel like home)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Unsteady" by X Ambassadors.  
> Okay, so three things inspired this- one, a gif I found hidden on my phone from one of the episodes that showed Blaine as a kid playing Operation, wondering about the Aunt Roberta that appeared in 'innocence doesn't mean we're immune to these things', and the question of why Blaine never cried in front of others in his sophomore and junior year. Here's my answer.  
> Song to listen to while reading this is "Unsteady".

_"How can they hurt, words are just sounds  
_

_So take your shot_

_I don't want them to see that they're making it hard for me_

_At home I cry_

_Bet that you think that you're on your own  
_

_And you've no one's hand to hold..."_

_-Nicola Roberts,_ sticks + stones

 

When Blaine was four was the first time his Mommy, his dear, sweet, caring Mommy called him something that hurt. "Mommy?" He asked, eyes wide with curiosity, "Why are you and Daddy always gone ta busy-ness?"

She looked at him down her nose, and said, "Because you're a freak."

Blaine frowned. He didn't know what 'freak' meant, but he did know that it didn't sound good. "What's a freak?" He asked, confused.

Blaine was always wide-eyed and curious. Too curious for his own good, as he ended up in places he shouldn't have been, learned things that hurt him. Over the course of his childhood he learned what things hurt the most, what verbal daggers had the sharpest edges, what disappointments hit the hardest. He learned that his brother leaving him behind did not hurt as much as his Aunt dying, and that other children calling him 'fag' did not hurt as much as his parents calling him 'freak'.

* * *

The last normal childhood memory Blaine Anderson has is when he was five and he got to play Operation with Coop. He failed at it- Cooper won every time- but he was _happy_. Blaine Anderson had not yet learned what faggot or whore meant, had not hardened his eyes or his backbone, had not learned how to hide broken hearts and fake smiles, had not yet been abandoned. Blaine was five, and he was having fun. He had a lisp at the time, he would later remember- he couldn't say the word 'enemy'. Instead he pronounced it 'emeny', making his fifteen year old brother laugh, which would in turn make Blaine giggle.

(The next person to make Blaine Anderson giggle would be ten years later at a seat in the Lima Bean, sitting across from a diva who was rolling her eyes and sitting next to Blaine, chattering on about Vogue magazine covers and talking to Blaine about something  _he_ was interested in, too.)

* * *

When other kids were chasing each other down the road, playing football and basketball with each other, six-year-old Blaine Anderson was in his room quietly singing Disney tunes, pretending to dance with Prince Phillip, and trying to forget about how his mommy had told him that Disney Princes were for girls and faggots.

Blaine, being the bright young boy he was, had looked up 'faggot' in the big dictionary he'd bought with Cooper's Christmas gift card this year.

'Faggot' apparently meant **' _Extremely Disparaging and Offensive_. a contemptuous term used to refer to a male homosexual.'**

Now, Blaine didn't know a lot of those words but he _d_ _id_  know that being a faggot wasn't a good thing, just like a freak hadn't been a good thing when he was four. But Prince Phillip was so nice, and had such a beautiful voice and eyes - why couldn't Blaine have a Prince just like Sarah next door? Why couldn't Blaine sing 'I Wonder'? Why couldn't Blaine dream of dancing with Prince Phillip, of being rescued by a knight in shining armor who would slay a dragon for him? What was wrong with wanting someone who would fight for him, who would be willing to go through troubles and tribulations for him?

 _Was_  there something wrong with him? Blaine's bottom lip trembled as he tried to keep from crying as he plopped down on his bed and looked at the bottom shelf of his bookshelf, the home of his collection of four impeccable bowties, each of which had been given to him by his Aunt Roberta. Was he some freak, as his father called him? Was he some faggot, the word his mother spat with such venom?

Blaine was six years old. While other kids were welcomed home to parents asking them about Junie B. Jones and the capital of Ohio, Blaine was wondering if he was a _freak_.

* * *

When other kids were coming home to little siblings who adored them, older siblings who sighed at them with fond exasperation, or just no siblings at all, eight-year-old Blaine Anderson was abandoned by his older brother. And not on just any day- on his _birthday_. How great a birthday gift was it for Blaine to be left only a single piece of looseleaf on his dresser that said, "Bye, squirt. Hope you have a great year. I'm off to L.A. to be an actor. Don't let Mom and Dad get you down."

Blaine Anderson, who still had yet to learn what 'verbal abuse' meant, who had yet to be called a whore and a slut, learned a new word that day- cowardice. It meant tears and sadness and losing his only shield. It meant coldness, and it meant abandonment.

It meant a childhood with no one who loved him but for his Aunt Roberta, who only came over a few times a year. The rest of the time Blaine was subjected to his parent's words, and the pretense of a childhood he'd been so gingerly holding together with his small, unskilled hands fell apart at his feet.

* * *

When he was eleven years old, Blaine Anderson realized that he was truly alone in the universe. His Aunt Roberta died while he was sleeping by her side in the hospital. She died, and the first thing the nurse said when she came in was "Good riddance. Disgusting faggot-lover."

Blaine didn't even flinch at the term anymore, even after he'd finally come out to his Aunt. No one else knew, not yet at least, because at least his parents had yet to call  _him_ a fag, and maybe lying to them about who he was would hurt less than his mother calling him an abomination.

When Aunt Roberta died, her last conversation had gone like this: "Blaine, I love you like my own son. I hope you'll continue to express yourself, whether that be through music or your bowties." She'd brushed her fingers on his cheek and he'd looked up at her to find her smiling at him. "And Blaine?"

"Yes, Aunt Roberta?"

"Find some boy who deserves you. Find someone who appreciates you. Don't sell yourself short."

"Yes, Aunt-" Blaine's reply was cut off by the beep from the heart monitor as his Aunt's heart rate leveled out. 

When a child's parent dies it's horrible. When Kurt Hummel's mother died it was like the end of the world. For months he and his father grieved, but in the end they had each other. They moved on gradually, finally getting to the point that they could laugh over the good memories without feeling guilty that they were no longer grieving.

Blaine Anderson had no one else after his Aunt Roberta died. Once she was gone, everyone left in his life treated him like scum. Even before he came out a year after she died, his parents called him _freak_. Blaine lost the one person who cared about him that lonely day in the hospital, and after that he didn't wear another bowtie until the day five years later that he picked one up in order to impress Kurt Hummel. He would look in the mirror and try to believe that Aunt Roberta would have approved.

* * *

For Christmas the year he turned twelve Blaine Anderson was told that he was a waste of space and that he didn't even deserve a Christmas tree. While halfway across a state a little boy was hugged by his single mother and told that his paper tree ornament was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen (even though they already had seven similar ones, made the past school years), Blaine was left in a dark, empty house without a single Christmas light. For dinner he attempted to cook himself some mac and cheese. Not a great Christmas dinner but hey, it was better than nothing.

He ended up burning himself, catching the end of his thumb on the pot as he was dancing around the kitchen listening to the radio, trying to pretend that this was just another night and that it really _was_  better that his parents weren't there. When he stood there, running his burning thumb under the cold water flowing from the faucet and providing blessed relief to his throbbing thumb, he had to admit to himself that this is _not_  what he wanted for Christmas. He wanted Coop and his parents home and being nice to him for once, and he wanted Aunt Roberta back to tell him stories where boys got their Princes and to tickle him when he was feeling down. That wasn't too much to ask, right? It wasn't too much to ask to just have one nice Christmas dinner instead of him sitting on a stool in the kitchen, a cool, damp washcloth wrapped around his thumb and an eye on the timer because if his mac and cheese burned then he'd have no way to pretend that something was going right in his life. He sat there and tried not to cry from emotional exhaustion and physical pain, but eventually he gave in and buried his face in his knees, muffling the sound of his sobs.

(Even though there was no reason to- no one could hear him crying, anyway.)

Blaine Anderson wouldn't cry in front of other people when he grew older because he had learned early on that no one cared.

* 

Four-year-old Blaine Anderson's eyes were bright; seventeen-year-old Blaine Anderson couldn't imagine anyone loving him. Five-year-old Blaine Anderson's bowtie was always worn proudly; sixteen-year-old Blaine Anderson's smile was patched together. Six-year-old Blaine Anderson wanted to dance with a Disney prince; twelve-year-old Blaine Anderson sat on a stool, thumb burnt and eyes filling with tears while he waited for dinner to cook. 

**Author's Note:**

> Did I break your heart?  
> ('Cause I definitely broke mine)


End file.
